


Don't Tell Dad

by jojothecr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean, M/M, Pre-Series, Wincest - Freeform, Written in 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>...Sam's eyes find Dean's, as he looks up for a few seconds, asking without putting a question, still hopping he's wrong.</em><br/>But the guilt and shame that have clouded his brother's eyes like an impenetrable veil say more than a thousand of Dean's words ever could...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell Dad

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Angst, pain, post violence & rape... not too graphic, but it's there. A hint of Wincest.

Sam is still mostly asleep when he makes his way through the lit hallway and into the bathroom. He reaches blindly for the light switch, blinding his eyes with the too bright, and in his drowsy state quite annoying light. And then he stops and blinks in surprise, as he finds the toilet occupied by his brother. Sam realizes he didn’t even hear him come back.

Dean kneels on the cold, sanitary white tiles, practically hugging the bowl and resting his forehead against the chilling porcelain.

“Where the hell have you been?!” Sam starts angrily, because he’d been waiting for Dean for a good three hours, until he fell asleep. He had burnt the damn dinner twice. And he was also freaking scared.

Dean only howls as another wave of nausea storms through his body and makes him throw up again.

Sam wrinkles his nose with disgust, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching for the glass that sits on the sink and filling it with cold water.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, although that is the last thing he is expecting.

Dean takes his duty seriously, too seriously sometimes, and he takes care of Sam, of the house, of the bills. He does not refuse a drink or two, especially after a long day at work or an exhausting hunt, but Sam has never seen him drunk. Not once.

Dean moans and shakes his head.

“Here,” Sam says after he crosses the small distance in between them and touches Dean’s shoulder with the bottle of the glass.

Dean looks up and reaches for the water, mumbling a barely audible, “Thanks.”

But the glass slips from Sam’s fingers the moment his eyes fall upon Dean’s face, and crashes against the floor, breaking in thick, sharp pieces and spilling the water around. “Holy shit!”

Sam’s alarm and the broken glass paint a confused wrinkle in between Dean’s eyebrows.

“Dean...” Sam gasps, absolutely ignoring the water pooling underneath his feet and the light reflecting in the broken pieces. He sees nothing, but the face in front of his eyes. The face of his own brother that he might not be able to recognize meeting him in shadows.

Smears of dirt, blood, and sweat mixed with tears cover Dean’s face like a protective coloration; staining his hair and making it stand up. There is a green-blue tarnish under his left eye. His eyebrow is torn and blood trickles from the wound, copying the contour of his right eye. A few bloody lines are scattered across both of his cheeks. His lower lip is split; a ruby dribble slips down his chin, following the half-dry path on his neck.

Sam reaches out to wipe away the blood dripping into Dean’s eye, but Dean jerks away, almost hitting his head against the wall beside him.

“Don’t touch me!” he barks at Sam, drawing away.

Startled, Sam raises his hands up. “Okay.”

Seeming to be surprised by his own reaction, Dean nods blankly, looking around and everywhere, except into Sam’s eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Sam wonders, his eyes frantically roaming Dean’s body, trying to see more than he actually can.

There is some more dirt on Dean’s black working overall; one of the braces is torn off and at least one button on the side is missing. Beside the red and gray stains Dean is pale. Shaking.

“Did you get into a fight? Were you hunting?”

Dean retches again and then sits down onto his haunches, wiping his mouth with toilet paper. He sighs and shakes his head.

Sam crouches next to Dean, not caring about the splinter that jabs into his knee and stares at him with wide eyes. “What happened then? Dean, damn it! Talk to me!”

Dean stands up and staggers as if his legs were too weak to keep him upright, and then closes his eyes briefly against the dizziness that immediately follows the far too quick movement. Sam is on his feet in an instant and grabbing for Dean’s sleeve to steady him, but Dean’s arms fly up, pushing Sam away vehemently. His eyes are darkened and wild.

“Leave me alone,” he hisses. “Go. Go!”

“Dean?”

“Go away!” Dean yells. “Go!”

Sam shoots him an uncomprehending look and then heaves a frustrated sigh. “Fine!” he utters through his teeth, before he storms out of the bathroom, closing the door behind himself with a deafening blow.

He spends the next few, endless minutes pacing the small space in between the bathroom and the kitchen door. He can hear Dean throw up a couple more times, his ragged breath echoing in the empty room and seeping through the door. Then the flush of the toilet, a shuffle of bare feet, running of water. He counts to fifty and backward; twice, trying to smooth down the panic and anger that is racing through his veins and mixing with an absolute confusion at his brother’s anger. Finally coming to a conclusion that Dean has no right to yell at him in the middle of the night, without giving him one logical reason for his behavior, Sam stops and takes a deep breath.

He tears the door open without knocking and walks straight in, repeating his prepared speech, aloud this time. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck has happe--” However his words die on his tongue as soon as his eyes settle upon Dean, who stands in the middle of the bathroom, absolutely frozen with Sam’s unexpected and stormy entrance. “-- Jesus Christ!”

Dean’s overalls have dropped to the floor, as he was obviously just getting ready for the shower, and he is still wearing a white undershirt and black boxers, but even if he stood there in Adam’s vesture he could barely be naked more. And he obviously feels the same, as the blush creeps into his cheeks, giving them finally some hue, and he drops his eyes to the floor.

Sam has seen a lot of terrible, mystery wounds that either Dad or Dean had carried from hunts, but these don’t look like any of them. These are different and even more terrifying. His gaze follows with horror every inch of Dean’s exposed skin and he desperately prays to be mistaken, wishes he’s reading all the glimmers and shadows wrong. Yet he knows he is right. He knows that what he thinks he sees is exactly what he sees, because he’s not naive anymore. His childish nightmares have turned out to be real and even scarier than he had feared many years ago, and everything in his world was possible now. Even _this_.

Dean’s whole body is tattooed with violence and pain. The light golden shade of his skin is impaired with smears of dry blood, dark blue bruises and red, semi-lunar cuts and fingerprints that mark his thighs and protruding hips. There is more dirt on his legs and a new bleeding cut on his shin, most probably from the broken glass that still lies on the floor.

Sam can feel the rush of his own blood thumping in his ears in the rapid beat of his heart, feels the shiver running up and down his spine like the fingers of a ghost. _This cannot be true. Can’t be. Dean is too strong to let this happen, right? No one would dare hurt him... like that, would they?_

Sam’s eyes find Dean’s as he looks up for a few seconds, asking without putting a question, still hopping he’s wrong. But the guilt and shame that have clouded his brother’s eyes like an impenetrable veil say more than a thousand of Dean’s words ever could.

Dean looks away and his whole figure seems to be withdrawing into itself, making him look smaller, fragile underneath the acid light.

Tears swallow Sam’s eyes and he frantically tries to keep his emotions and feelings under control, but the strangled sob forces its way through his trembling lips before he can stop it. “Dean...”

Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move; just keeps standing there like a marionette. Like a wind up puppet, waiting to be put into operation again.

A couple of minutes passes – the two possibly longest minutes in Sam’s life when nothing but the panicking and screaming voice inside his head can be heard, forcing him to say something, do something, but gluing his feet to the floor just as strongly.

“Have you--” he starts finally, only to find out there is no volume to his words. He clears his throat and tries again. “Have you been to the police? To the hospital?”

A visible jolt runs through Dean’s entire body, breaking the constant shiver momentarily, and he looks up at Sam, dismayed, startled. “What?”

“Put your clothes on, I’ll take you there.” Sam says, only now realizing that Dean drove the entire way from his work back here in exactly the same devastated state he is in now.

“No.” Dean’s voice is barely higher than a whisper, his indignation evident and understandable.

Sam takes a resolute step forward and Dean moves finally, flinching unwittingly. Sam shifts the fatal step back, giving Dean space to move from the wall, to breathe.

“Dean, I understand you don’t want to -- fuck, no, you’re right, I have no idea what you feel, but you need to report it... You need to... He has to--” _And damn, since when does he have trouble speaking?_ “What if you’re hurt? I mean, obviously you are... but--you know...” He makes a nothing-saying gesture with his hand and Dean swallows hard. Sam can actually see the frantic beating of Dean’s heart as it's mirrored in the vein on his throat.

“I’m not bleeding,” he whispers. “Anymore.”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam’s sure he’s going to be sick.

“And I’m not going anywhere.” Dean states resolutely despite the low, uneven sound of his voice, pulling his shirt over his head and displaying more new yellow and green injuries.

“You can’t let him go free. What if he hurts somebody else?” Sam wonders, but Dean seems to be deaf. “Dean...” A sigh. A plead.

“They won’t.” Dean replies, and then visibly tenses and looks at Sam, as if wondering if he heard what Dean has inadvertently let slip out.

A gaping black hole appears in front of Sam’s eyes and he feels like falling straight into it, because he has heard. _“They?_ ” he repeats breathlessly; the word ringing painfully in his skull. “There was more than one?”

The shirt slips from Dean’s fingers, leaving him once again with nothing to hold, to focus his attention on, so he starts to pick at the crack in the shower door with his thumbnail absently. Then he nods, looking as if he were the guilty one. Like it was his fault that he’s handsome and attracts the attention from both genders.

Sam has noticed the glances people have been shooting in Dean’s direction; women, men, disgusting old perverts... everyone. Because he _is_ beautiful. Sam knows, for he looks, _used to_ look at him, that way too. And now he wants to throw up because of himself. Now he tries to look at Dean and see him differently, but his eyes perceive him still in the same way.

Lean, but strong and well muscled body; years of dad’s intense training reflecting underneath smooth, pale skin. Big green eyes that can be emerald deep or pure, almost gray. The long, thick eyelashes that send shadows on his freckle-spangled cheeks. He recalls the smile that can light up the skies, now killed with an emptiness that could make them cry.

And suddenly Sam remembers all the people that have tried to warn John, telling him to keep Dean off collective hunts. Out of the reach of other hunters; other changed and hardened men that saw only red in front of their eyes and felt nothing but lust for revenge and hunger for anything that could tranquillize or deafen it.  
Dad didn’t care or didn’t see. He had trained Dean to be a hunter, a soldier and that was how he always looked at him.

“You can’t be sure they won’t hurt anyone else.” Sam comes back to the reality. “How could you be sure--wait, you didn’t like... kill them?”

Dean sneers, causing the dry drops of blood on his lip to trickle again. “Do I look like I won?” He looks unnaturally calm suddenly. His voice is flat, emotionless and even his posture reminds Sam of a robot. “It was a lesson, Sam.”

“A lesson?” Sam’s eyes grow wide. “Lesson of what?”

Dean shakes his head; panic and fear crawling almost visibly back underneath his skin, and he clasps his hand over his mouth, storming for the toilet bowl one more time.

Sam shivers at the sounds. There is evidently nothing left in Dean’s stomach and his body seems to be fighting with itself. Dribbles of sweat roll down his bare back and his fingers grasp the porcelain tightly.

“Please, Dean, let me take you to the hospital,” Sam almost begs, but Dean only shakes his head again.

Sam heaves a sigh and leans against the sink, feeling very close to fainting. He picks up his strength after a moment and pulls away. “I’ll bring you some more water,” he says, before he walks out of the bathroom.

Behind the door all of his energy disappears all of a sudden, he slumps against the wall and then slides to the floor, shaking and crying, biting onto his own fist to keep quiet.

When he returns into the bathroom, maybe ten minutes later, with a bottle of chilled mineral water and faked calmness plastered on his face, he finds Dean in the shower. Through the water stained glass, he can see the despairing, almost brutal force Dean is putting into his attempt to sponge down his skin, before he places his palms upon the wall and bows his head underneath the spray of water. Steam rises out of the shower bath, fogging the mirror and both windows, and Sam tries not to think about the proofs of the terrible act that are being washed away and sent down the drain. He sets the bottle on the sink and then goes to the bedroom to find Dean something to wear.

He spends a whole eternity, which the clock ticks away only like forty minutes, gazing blankly at the opposite wall and biting his nails nervously.

When Dean finally does appear, Sam almost skips with fright as the ghost of his own brother passes him on its way to the bedroom.

Dean’s face and chest are deeply flushed; his hair is wet and combed back. He’s wearing his old, a little threadbare sweatpants and Sam’s long sleeved shirt. The sleeves would be long enough to cover his fingers even if he weren’t tugging at them and gripping them in his fisted hands. There is a sticking-plaster across his eyebrow and a smaller one upon his lower lip, and _God, he’s beautiful even like that._

Sam suddenly remembers dad’s supposedly secret bottle of Jim and rushes into the kitchen to search all of the cabinets there, before he finally discovers it in, as usual, the last place he looked. He takes a long sip, wincing at the burning sensation running down his throat that makes him cough, and then returns with his catch into the bedroom.

Dean lies on the king-sized bed silently, curled in a fetal position and clutching his pillow tightly, staring blankly out the window.

Sam smiles sadly and sets the bottle on the bedside locker, beside the sleeping pills he put there before. He sits down on the bed beside Dean carefully, and his fingers almost by their own will touch Dean’s temple, smoothing away a few drops of water, or sweat.

Dean jerks as if he were struck by lightning and Sam pulls away quickly, startled.

“Stay,” Dean whispers, barely audibly. “But don’t touch... don’t touch me.”

His breath hitches then, and he buries his face into the pillow, the unsuccessfully dimmed cry rocking through his whole body like a fever. He looks as if the realization that he can’t even stand the touch of his own brother – of the person, who’s always been the closest to him, who’s been his emotional shield and now rises another tsunami of sickness inside of him - has only now reached his senses, opening his eyes to what has really happened and baring all the wounds he didn’t seem to feel before.

Sam pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on them. Tears of pity and fecklessness roll down his cheeks, soaking the cotton of his sweatpants. He listens to the rain thumping on the window pane, the splashing as the passing cars run through the puddles, causing him to realize it must have been raining for some time already.

He watches Dean practically shattering to pieces in front of his eyes, sees him cry himself to sleep and awake with a chocked scream from a nightmare. Three times.  
The first time he nearly falls of the bed and mumbles, “Don’t tell dad.” The second time he drinks half off the liquid that’s left in the bottle of Jim Bean. When he finds himself awake for the third time, he only silently takes the packet of sleeping pills from Sam and pours two of them into his mouth.

Sam keeps his eyes upon him all the time, rocking back and forth and trying to calm down. He knows how to take care of bite wounds, of bullet shots, how to sew torn skin and get rid of a ghost, but he has no idea what to do know – how to soothe the physical and emotional pain of rape. He wonders what will be in the morning, in the following days, what his brother’s gonna become. He feels like the world should end tonight, since it has already fallen apart behind Dean’s eyes.

Sometime close to noon Dean turns onto his stomach with a moan of pain and buries himself deeper into the sheets. His eyes are still closed, his voice only a raspy whisper, and Sam is not sure if he is even awake.

“They were right, you know?” Dean mumbles. “I did deserve that. For loving you. For wanting you.”

 

Before the winter strikes, in the darkness of off-hunt nights and damaged brotherhood, Sam discovers the truth of the fateful summer night. The act of Dean’s ex co-workers, who’ve been convinced there must have been more behind his abstract and averse behavior. Who might have sensed more than either Dean or Sam had ever realized before. Rape and bashing like a lecture, a punishment. Like a way to take what they wanted and Dean refused to give voluntarily.

 

Six years later John dies without ever knowing, without noticing how the last shining sparkles of innocence had disappeared from his son’s eyes. He’s never questioned the shadows clouding Dean’s face, the freezing tendencies of his son’s body that would lock him in the prison of his own being, making him completely deaf and blind to his surroundings. He’s always been too busy with hunting, with searching for the beast that transformed his family and his life in shambles, too busy to really notice that two particles of the wreck were still alive.


End file.
